Fugue
by Naomi Sisko
Summary: An insane Yeerk takes up residence in the mind of a mental patient.
1. Fracture

**FUGUE**

* * *

**part one: fracture**

* * *

I used to dream that I could reach the stars. I would close my eyes and fly away to a galaxy full of planets brimming with extraterrestrial life. Now, I not only know such a place exists. I live in it. 

My name is Leanne. At least, it used to be, before I met the Yeerks. In a way, they saved my life. But they killed my soul. 

Not that I was headed down the road to eternal bliss. That is a road that few find, and good luck to them, I say. They're going to need it. 

To the rest of us, well, what can I say? Just hope the word "Yeerk" never enters your vocabulary. 

I tried to kill myself. That's how it all started. Ironic, since that's how it should have ended. Maybe it will yet. 

Anyway, I was sent to the Institution to play the shrinks' games till I would cooperate and be happy. Let me tell you, after my suicide attempt went awry, I was not in the mood to cooperate. But I knew when to quit. See, acting suicidal in a mental institution is not the best way to gain an opportunity to end it all. So I sat back and waited. 

You think I'm crazy? Well, I'm the sane one here. At least, I _was_ the only sane one at the Institution, shrinks included. 

After about my first week in the madhouse, one of the patients got hold of a knife. How? Ask him. Anyway, he had it, and hid it in his bathing suit when all the patients not on suicide alert went swimming during rec hour. (By that time I had convinced the shrinks I was safe.) Once in the pool, the guy pulled the knife on someone he'd had a disagreement with the day before. He stabbed the poor man several times, turning the water a grisly crimson. 

Blood. I hate it. And I love it. I hate it when it's someone else's blood. But I love it when it's my own. My pulse quickened with a thought: I had to have the knife. I had to bleed. So I ignored the shrinks calling everyone to get out of the pool. I dived and kicked myself underwater, into the red. 

At first I could see nothing but a bloody fog, but the cloud parted at places to give me a better view of the crime. It was then that I saw the slug. 

Yeerk scum! 

Had I known then what I know now, I would have fled. Despite my misgivings about life, free will is very important to me. 

I watched the slug swim for a while, forgetting the blood in my curiosity. When it came near me, I moved to swim away, but the thing was too quick for me. Before I knew it, it had found its way into my ear canal, forcing its way past my eardrum. 

A funny thing happened then. I couldn't move. I couldn't even hold my breath anymore. My body reverted to its unconscious functions, meaning my lungs were soon filled with water, and I choked. In my daze I couldn't really tell when I blacked out. I just know that when I woke up a doctor was standing over me. 

The thing in my head craved oatmeal. That was the one overpowering sensation as the slug moved my arms to pull out the IV and punch the doctor in the face, though with my weak body the blow didn't do much more than startle him. Soon I was in restraints. 

Hello, Leanne, > came a voice from inside my head. 

You must be that slug, > I sneered. Ha! Oatmeal-addict slug. > 

Yeerk, actually. > The voice was hollow, fragile, like something was not quite right. 

Not that a Yeerk in my head was all right. 

How did you get into the pool? > I asked. 

Robert was my old host. He was dying, so I had to find a new host. > 

Me. > 

Yes. > The Yeerk cackled. 

It was then that I noticed my bed was moving. 

"Where are you taking me?" the Yeerk asked for me. When it received no answer, it began to cry. 

_What do you think you're doing?!_ > I screamed. If you're going to be me, for heaven's sake, _don't cry about it!_ > 

Tears are something you feel strongly about, > the Yeerk managed. I am sorry . . . I cannot . . . > 

"_Sorry!_ Then why did you . . . ?" I made it halfway through my question before I realized I had spoken aloud. 

The doctor looked at me strangely, then shook his head and ignored me as he pushed my bed into an elevator. All I could think was that I was in control again. But the Yeerk was still in my head. Or was it _just_ in my head? Anyway, the whole thing was starting to scare me. I have been suicidal, but never delusional. 

The Yeerk had said it was sorry. Was that why it had let me have control again? Or was it sorry because it couldn't keep control? Confused, I set that issue aside for the time being and focused on my sanity. 

"Doctor, can nearly drowning cause someone to hallucinate?" 

The question seemed to pique his interest. "So you're not only awake; you're in your right mind now. Yes, any near death experience can cause one to have strange dreams or to see a light at the end of a tunnel or what have you." 

"So I don't really have a Yeerk in my head." 

"A what?" 

"A Yeerk. Some kind of parasitic alien slug that takes over your brain." 

The elevator doors ahead opened as he answered. "No, you don't have a Yeerk in your head. Though I would like to ask what you were thinking when you attacked me." 

I sighed. "Something just . . . came over me." 

"Well, I'm sure that your psychiatrist will be quite interested to hear all about the experience." The doctor wheeled my bed into the elevator. 

"You're taking me back to the Institution." 

"Yes. We'll be taking the tunnel above Harper Street connecting the hospital to the Institution. I hope you're not afraid of heights." 

"Don't worry; I'm not." As we came to the tunnel, my mind floated elsewhere, to fantasies of freedom, beauty, and accomplishment, stars so rare and far they seemed useless to strive towards. But something deep and hidden still believed that I could reach them. This hope, not the despair, made it impossible for me to live. Bitter, nostalgic tears stung at my eyes, but I tackled them fiercely, knowing I couldn't afford to even take a step in the direction of healing. 

In my mind's eye, I saw me fall, smashing to bits against the unforgiving cement. Again and again I replayed the crash, taking a crude satisfaction at how quickly I had banished the softness from my heart. 

Leanne. > The Yeerk's speech wavered. 

Oh, no, > I thought. 

Stronger this time, the Yeerk said, Oh, yes. > 

I felt my control go as the Yeerk started subtly writhing my body under the bed's restraining straps. 


	2. Tritone

**FUGUE**

* * *

**part two: tritone**

* * *

The Yeerk retained control throughout my entire psychiatric session following the incident. It seemed to have realized after awhile that the only way out of the Institution was to cooperate with the shrinks. And the Yeerk wanted out. 

That's what's so similar between you and me, > said the Yeerk, whose name was Arete 282, as it made me follow a social worker back to the common room. We both want our freedom, and neither of us can have it. > 

I'm not addicted to oatmeal, > I retorted. 

No, > said the Yeerk, but are you addicted to despair? > 

The truth of the statement gave me pause, until I realized something. You shouldn't know that, > I growled. You shouldn't be in my head . . . reading every private thought! > 

My anger startled the Yeerk. I felt its influence go weak, then slip. For a second, I stumbled, but quickly regained control over my legs. I hummed softly to make sure I could speak, then said, "Um, could I go back to Doctor Sweeney's office? I forgot to tell her something . . . important." 

The man I was following stopped, sighed, and asked, "Is it an emergency?" 

I bit my lip, reluctant to say yes and ruin my chances of an earlier exit from the Institution. But then again, getting Arete 282 out of my head was top priority. "Yes." 

Nodding, the man turned, and I followed him back to Doctor Sweeney's office. 

"Leanne," the Doctor said, eyebrows raised. 

"She says she forgot to tell you something important," the man reported. "Says it's an emergency." 

"Sit down, Leanne," said Doctor Sweeney, motioning for the man to leave. "What seems to be the trouble?" 

I looked at my feet, trying to gather the courage to say what needed to be said. 

"Are you planning to kill yourself?" 

Funny. The thought hadn't even entered my brain since the Yeerk made it his residence. I shook my head. 

"Do you feel like hurting anyone?" 

"No!" I shot down that question immediately. "I . . . have a slug in my head." The words came out flat, simple, quite unlike the eloquent speech I had been planning. 

"A slug?" 

I nodded. 

"Are you hearing voices?" Doctor Sweeney leaned forward and snatched a notebook on her desk, then scribbled something inside it. 

"Well, it's not exactly like hearing . . . not with my ears. But with my mind. The slug, he calls himself a Yeerk. He's named Arete 282. He can contol me some of the time." 

"What does he tell you to do?" 

I frowned. "He doesn't tell me, he _makes_ me do it. Makes my arms move, makes me speak . . . He was controlling me when I talked to you earlier. He can read my mind, so you'd never know it wasn't me." 

"How long has this been going on?" 

I shivered when I remembered the cloud of blood that had started it all. "Since . . . the stabbing in the pool. When I almost drowned." 

The Doctor wrote a few more notes. "I'm glad you told me this, Leanne. I'm going to try you out on some new meds for the next few days, while you recover from your near death experience." She closed her notebook, then stood up, prompting me to leave. 

I remained seated. "But I'm not making this up! It's not just in my head! I mean, it is in my head, but . . . you know what I mean. I need somebody to take this Yeerk out of my head!" 

"Wait a couple of days, Leanne," said the Doctor. "With this new medication, your Yeerk delusions will soon disappear." 

I gritted my teeth and walked out of the room, muttering, "We'll see about that." 

* * *

I tried to talk about Arete in group therapy that afternoon, only to receive several chuckles. Embarrassed, I retreated into a grim mood that entire evening. I stomped off to bed and stared at the darkened ceiling for hours, the light from the hallway casting deep shadows. All patients were required to keep their doors open so that they could be more closely monitored by one of the Institution's staff. That night's nurse was a redhead, fairly petite, who looked much older than her thirty-two years. I imagined that the past few weeks had visually aged me past my own twenty-three years, but I hadn't had access to a mirror since I was admitted to the Institution, and therefore could not know if my theory was correct. 

I missed my piano, too. I used to write songs, had dreamed of someday publishing them, but that, along with all my other aspirations, had become less and less important to me as my depression deepened. But for some reason, staring at the strange shadow-shapes on the textured ceiling, I felt like playing and playing and never stopping. I wondered how the notes would sound against the background of my air conditioner. I wondered what the song pressing at my lips would sound like if I had the freedom to sing it. Tears threatened to come, so I pinched myself. Hard. The tears faded, but the song did not. Would not. 

Mentally, I stepped on the conductor's podium, cued the violins, and lost myself in the music until, in a dissonant note, Arete took my place. 


End file.
